


Perception

by varooooom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fairies, Fluff, M/M, Magic Revealed, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:38:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur finds Merlin in the fog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perception

**Author's Note:**

> Written at 5AM when I looked outside my window and saw my entire street was hidden by fog, save the few spots where street lamps were glowing cheerily. I should sleep soon.

When fog settles over Camelot, everything always grinds to a halt. People are less inclined to work and gods help him if Arthur can get his men to train without stumbling over their own bootstraps. It's thick and stifling and the Prince is staunchly not a fan, his mood always bubbling at a low simmer when his streets are covered in that familiar blanket of grey.

But all of that slips away when he's with Merlin. In the same way that he gets beneath all of Arthur's defences, shedding off his armour like he was born for it even when his clumsy fingers couldn't tell one buckle from the next - Merlin makes it difficult to be filled with anything but awe when fog graces them in the dead of night.

They're returning from a short patrol when they make camp just outside the city boundaries. His men have long since slipped into uncomfortable sleep, bundled in their cloaks and blankets, packed as closely to the dying fire as possible in a vain attempt to fight back the cold. Arthur leaves them to it, too used to the oppressive weight of the fog that always follows heavy rainfall and unwilling to let his men suffer more for a spot of comfort that amounts to little. Besides, outside of their circle, he can tug Merlin's pallet closer without worrying what anyone might say about the things they already know. They curl in as close as they dare this far in the open, and Arthur can take comfort in his manservant's breath rising in the cold air alongside his own.

Merlin stirs and Arthur worries he's woken him, but the idiot only snuffles his way closer to Arthur's neck and presses a kiss to skin slightly dampened by the air. Maybe he wasn't asleep after all; Arthur shuts his eyes and feigns it for himself as he feels Merlin stretch and shiver, steeling himself before peeling his way out of his blankets. With his back turned to him, Arthur can watch as Merlin sleepily stumbles his way off in the direction of the trees. He has no interest in watching him relieve himself, but a trill of panic shoots up Arthur's already uncomfortable spine when his figure is swallowed up by the fog.

It takes too long to disentangle himself from the mess of blankets Merlin can never properly lay for him. That simmering anger at the shite weather murmurs useless insults about Merlin's competence in Arthur's ear, but he swats it away in favour of starting after him through the trees. There's no reason to wander far, there's plenty enough room for privacy beyond the first line of trees and most of the Knights hardly even bother with that much, but Merlin is still nowhere to be found.

"Merlin," Arthur hisses, his voice low so as not to wake his men unnecessarily over a stupid bit of panic while a servant is taking a leak. But Merlin doesn't call him a prat or ask why he's following him like a pervert and that panic flares up higher than Arthur's vague irritation. He starts further into the trees, trying not to let his mind talk him into hysteria, but there's a river nearby and Arthur can scarcely see three paces ahead of himself and if Merlin fell in - at this time of night, when the Sun isn't due to break through the fog for hours yet to come -

He does _try_ not to break into a run, and mostly succeeds, but twigs and stones still slip beneath feet that move too quickly to cover ground Arthur can't really see. The cold clings to his gambeson, reminding Arthur for not the first time that Merlin's clothes are terribly ill suited to Camelot's weather even when the idiot _isn't_ wandering off on his own at ungodly hours of the morning. He's going to catch ill and Arthur will have to put up with his griping - and that's only if he doesn't _fall in the river and drown_.

" _Merlin_ ," he tries again, inwardly wincing at the edge of desperation that creeps into that singular exhale. He doesn't know how far they've gone from the camp. It's possible he's not even following Merlin at all; Arthur knows precisely where the river is and how to follow it back to Camelot with his eyes blindfolded, but Merlin could've gone in any direction and he wouldn't be able to tell with this thrice damned fog. A rather ungentlemanly swear spills from his lips and he runs his hands through his hair, trying again to tamp down his worst instincts that tell him it's already too late.

It's not. It's _not_.

He keeps moving, little comfort coming to him when he hears the rush of water flowing in a set course that a sleep-dazed Merlin would probably never recognise for the threat it is. If only there weren't this _fucking_ fog, if he could just _see_ where Merlin was -

\- and then he does.

The pounding of the river seems thunderous in Arthur's mind as it strains to hear cries of distress that aren't there because Merlin is just - standing, at the edge of the water. It laps at his boots and Arthur inwardly chides him for it, knowing full well he'll hear complaints of wet socks all the way back to his chambers, but even that measure of despairing fondness is discordant with the racing of his heart as it tries to accept the fact that Merlin isn't in any danger. He should be _livid_ by rights, cursing at the fog if nothing else, but when he sees Merlin standing there, it all just slips away. Like it always does with Merlin.

Merlin, who stands with his face tilted up towards the sky and his hands raised as though to catch rain that is no longer falling. The trees still glisten with its coating, wet leaves falling heavily to the ground when a gust of wind catches them, but the rain slowed hours before the fog settled in; yet somehow, it shimmers in the air as though Merlin is drenched in it. But when everything slows with the inset of fog as always, Arthur's perception shifts and changes.

The thick blanket of oppressive grey fills every corner of his vision. It coats the wildlife in a filter that should be dark but is cast brightly to near luminescence by the moon Arthur can't see above the mist. Merlin _glows_ in the fog, shining like a light breaking through the dense air, and a dull ring of light haloes his entire form as he stands there, _smiling_. Something warm melts in Arthur's chest, the thundering of the river replaced by his heart caught in his throat. Everything grinds to a halt and time goes with it.

Time stops. And Merlin is smiling.

What looks like droplets of water lit up by an unknown source turns out to be dozens of insect-sized creatures - _fairies_ , his mind supplies, and Arthur thinks back to the stories Morgana would tell him when they hid away from their nursemaids. Tales of fantastical adventures, magical creatures, and a wonder so much brighter than his father's pyres, taller and grander and too great to be true. But Merlin stands at the edge of earth and water, held in place by air that fills Arthur's lungs held tight lest he breathe and shatter the illusion. It can't be real, some logical corner of his mind tells him it can't be real and whispers _treason_ , but Merlin smiles and fairies dance in circles around him. They brush their hands across the folds of his clothing and the exposed skin of his neck, tittering to each other excitedly and joining hands every now and then as they pass for a twirl or dip. They fly in wide arches over his head and spin in his outstretched hands, kissing his fingertips and the chilled-red tip of his nose.

The fog clouds out everything else in the world and Arthur watches as nature worships Merlin, cherishes his presence and swells with joy. His heart beats in his chest and his lungs inhale, exhale. His fingertips numb in the cold and ache for Merlin's skin and Arthur knows this isn't a dream. It isn't a story or a fable.

It's simply _Merlin_.

Merlin, who has no manners or sense of propriety and cries when Arthur fells a deer or takes a hit in a fight, who couldn't make it to work on time if his life depended on it yet still has the audacity to grin for all the world when he throws Arthur's curtains open. The same Merlin that traces Arthur's name into his spine with his fingertips and his lips and steals Arthur's spot on the bed because he says it smells like him, only to end up tugging Arthur in place there anyway so he can drape himself across his chest. Merlin risks his life for him in ways Arthur would never ask of a servant or even a Knight at times, follows him to the brink and back and never falters in his step at Arthur's side; he laughs and teases and moans for Arthur, gives all he has and more — and none of this changes when the fog encases them in silence and Merlin looks behind him to smile for his Prince.

He can't see the fairies anymore, can only see the way Merlin's fingertips glow as he offers Arthur his hand and the way that light spreads to him as he lets Merlin pull him in close. One misstep and they'd both be lost to the rush of water beside them, but all Arthur thinks about is the warm press of Merlin's lips against his, the way their fingers slot perfectly together, and the dancing light that swirls around them until morning Sun lifts the fog and time moves forward once more.


End file.
